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"As in academy tradition, an award is presented to the outstanding cadets of the course. And who are we to go against tradition? It was a tough choice but the officers agreed that there was one cadet who was exceptional." Brent had a wide grin on his face, and he nodded knowingly at his friends. Nykki continued eating, completely oblivious to the expectant silence surrounding her. "The Special Merit Award goes to… Alexander Mason!" Enthusiastic applause broke out. Faces turned towards her, eyes looked to see her reaction. One was particularly hateful. His blue eyes shot daggers at her, but she didn't notice. She was trying her best to get out of the cafeteria without being noticed. "Speech! Speech!" Her fellow cadets clamored, banging their fists and cutlery on the tables. She felt a heat spread through her cheeks and to her ears. "He's blushing!" they chorused. Her twin grinned idiotically at her and helped her onto a more prominant position on the table. Hushed silence surrounded her. "Well," she started self-consciously. "I think I'll leave the long speech until graduation, I don't really want to bore you yet." Her audience laughed. "I just want to say 'thank you' to everyone, I shall try to live up to it." Applause broke out again. People surrounded her to give her their congratulations. She stood there shaking hands. Her wounds throbbed painfully. Her arm ached, and her ribs felt sore. She finally managed to get out of the cafeteria with Nicholas behind her. "Congratulations," he said when they were finally out of the human jam. "I've got to run, Mark Hash is waiting to give me target-practice, and I've got Jon Sanders after that." "I'm going back to the room. I never expected shaking hands to be such a strenuous job!"
She walked slowly back to her room. The corridor was quiet, only the eyes of previous Directors-of-Training watched her progress from their dark frames on the wall. Everyone was at the cafeteria. Almost everyone, she thought as Brent stepped round the corner and towards her. "Brent," she called out hesitatingly, "Why aren't you at the cafeteria? Everyone's there." "Why should I be there? They're celebrating your success, your success, not mine! Do you really enjoy rubbing my nose into the dirt so often?" "Brent, I never rubbed your nose in the dirt. Come on, you're one of my friends!" The words sounded fake even to her. He continued as though he had never heard her. "You've taunted me, baited me, and up-staged me whenever possible. I have never been so embarrassed before! After all the humble apologies this morning, you went and took my award for yourself! What are you? Some bastard from hell?" "Brent, I can explain…" He cut her off. "You're just a fucking boot-licker! You've got everyone twisted round your little finger, especially that idiot Christopher Wilder and his father! Both of them listen to whatever you say! They all think you're some heaven sent angel. You're going to pay for everything you've done to me…" he broke of his sentence and lunged at her. Brent struck her with the full weight of his body, and she went staggering back, trying only to hold him off. Their bodies hit the wall with such force that a picture fell with a crash of glass. A few well-aimed punches found her kidneys and he kicked her stomach. The pain that surged through her was indescribable. His fist crashed into her right eye and caused her vision to swim crazily. She desperately tried to clear her head. Before she could recover, his knuckles landed on her lip. She tasted the metallic tang of blood and grimaced. "Come on," Brent taunted, "Why don't you return my punches? Let's see what you're made of!" he sneered. "Come on, what are you? A ten-year-old boy fights better than you. At least he won't be standing still and acting like a punching bag! Fight me!" The rest of his taunts were interrupted by her. "Bastard! I may be a girl but I can take care of myself!" she hissed, Brent looked at her incomprehensibly. She took his momentary distraction and socked him hard in the jaw with her knuckles. He staggered back, caught on unawares. She was about to hit him again when his hands grabbed her wrists and jerked her hands up sharply, effectively preventing her from hitting him again. He pushed her back against the wall. She felt flesh tearing under her shirt as he violently pulled her arms, and in reflex, kicked hard at her attacker. Her hard thrust landed at his groin and Brent collapsed, gibbering in pain and fury. Attracted by the noise, several people rushed to the scene. Christopher and Nicholas hurriedly pushed through the gathering crowd to pull a groaning and weeping Brent off the floor, and pushing him none too gently to the spectators milling around. It was then that Christopher realized that Nykki had done nothing to help them. She was still standing against the wall, where Brent's second rush had driven her, and Christopher thought at first that she was in shock. Her face was as white as her shirt, her eyes closed; her hands, pressing hard against the wall, were all that kept her on her feet. As he stared, thunderstruck, her dark head fell forward and she slid to the floor. He reached her the same moment as her twin, and was kneeling at her side before he realized that she could not have been seriously wounded in the brief struggle. Even if Brent had caught her by surprise, he was sure she was more than capable of defending herself. Christopher knew then, even before he saw the first crimson drops stain her white shirt. It was the first time he had seen her without a mask - the muffling cover of a helmet, the bland facial expressions that stemmed from tightly leashed emotions, or the equally concealing mask of conscious playacting. The unconscious control she had was worn away by physical pain and mental fatigue. Without its mocking smile, her face was dignified and gentle. He opened her shirt and saw what he expected to see - folds of bandaging, reddened by the reopened wound. He was still staring when Nicholas spoke up sharply. Everything was starting to fall in place. Cray's half-remembered curse, the way Nykki had stayed in her room after the riot, and her avoidance of any contact with him. "Christopher, hurry up. She's already lost quite a lot of blood." "Nykki," he said numbly. "I thought it was you. It was…" "Of course it was Nykki," Nicholas snapped. "She disobeyed orders and risked her life for you, and if we don't act quickly, she may have to pay the full price. Get the doctor, call an ambulance - go!" As he spoke, his efficient fingers were working at the bandages. Christopher gave no thought to the fact that a cadet was giving him orders and ran. When Christopher returned with Larssard, her eyes were open and she was trying to sit up. "Not yet," said Larssard, handing her a small bottle. "Brandy is a poor substitute for blood, but it will help. Nykki, you are a twit," he pronounced in semi-anger, but he couldn't hide the worry in his eyes. "Christopher, support her head while I…" "Christopher will do nothing of the kind," she said. "I'm quite all right, let me…" "You will do nothing of that kind," Larssard said calmly. "Christopher, do as you're told." Christopher sat on the floor and lifted Nykki's head onto his lap. He got no thanks from her, only a wicked glance from her silver-gray eyes. As his hands touched her disheveled dark curls and brushed across the darkening bruise on her cheekbone. He wondered how he could have been so deceived, even with an actress of her skill deliberately misleading him. He had not been able to reconcile Nicholas with the image of the one who had saved him and touched his cheek. If he had ever touched Nykki, even her hand after the daring rescue… there was no mistaking that sort of recognition, the instinctive knowledge of the flesh. She had been careful to avoid physical contact, but heaven knew she had had good reason to shrink from even the gentlest touch. This morning in the corridor must have cost her dearly to stand upright, much less converse so coolly. Nykki started to speak again. Nicholas cut her short by pushing the bottle of spirits against her mouth. She had to drink or choke. "Don't waste your strength arguing," he said. "And do what you're told. You aren't fit to even sit up, much less stand and walk." "I am perfectly fit. That damned bastard only jarred me." Nykki rolled her eyes up so that she was glaring straight at Christopher's face. "Christopher, you can let go of my head now and go tend to Brent. I think I may have rendered him impotent…" "There are others are seeing to him… What makes you think Christopher is willing to leave?" Nicholas demanded. "You are really unfair to him Nykki. If he hasn't earned your trust by now… You're not fooling me, you know," he added cryptically. A wave of color flooded into her pale cheeks. Christopher had not understood the meaning of her twin's words, but he was fascinated by this new display of emotion from a woman he had considered to be incapable of deep feeling. "Nicholas, sometimes you are the most annoying busybody," Nykki said with a resigned air. "Help me up Chris. Rest assured I am not as weak as you think. He just pushed me against the wall, and the picture frame struck the wound. He made it worse by hitting it. The skin's torn, it hurts like hell but there's no real damage." As she spoke she was struggling to her feet. She leaned without reserve on Christopher's shoulder, and the demonstration of confidence in him pleased him more than he could say. She tried to take a few steps, then almost fell onto the floor. She had almost no control over her legs. Nausea nearly overwhelmed her, and she fought back against the pain. "Damned foolish woman!" she heard her twin mutter under his breath. "I've got a better idea," Christopher said into her ear. Without warning, he placed a hand under her and lifted her up, the other hand supporting her back. They heard sirens approaching and headed immediately to the carport. He walked quickly with her in his arms, trying his utmost not to jar her. She was cradled in his arms like a child. She was light, too light. He looked at her, and she smiled back. She was trying to act as though nothing was wrong, but if it were possible, her face was even whiter now than before. He moved faster. The ambulance was already there when they arrived. The paramedics loaded Nykki onto the vehicle and drove off after Nick climbed on, sirens wailing. Christopher turned to look at Larssard. "I'm going to the hospital. Can you look at Brent and tell Dad what happened?" Larssard nodded. "Good, and tell Dad to meet me at the hospital." He hurried to his car. Just as he was inserting the key into the lock of the black Porsche, someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Leander Westfield. "I'm going with you," he said, brown eyes solemn. Chris looked at him intently, then motioned for him to get into the car.
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